


Centennial: Snow

by the49thname



Series: Centennial [3]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Request Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 07:46:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3167009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the49thname/pseuds/the49thname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He found himself sat on cold winter nights, head resting against a cold windowpane, gaze following the flakes of snow descending from the heavens outside, watching and immersing himself in this unknown feeling and not questioning it. Lavi-centric, part of a 100-part fic based on 100 themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Centennial: Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is the next installment in my ongoing series Centennial, based on the theme of snow. This was really nice to do, I really like the idea of Lavi having spent his time before Bookman in a lil house on a snowy mountainside with a loving family, who made pasta and read him stories before bed, because I like making myself cry otl. I didn’t mean for there to be any Laven it just sorta happened I’m sorry ;;; Anyway I hope you enjoy reading and lemme know what you think!!
> 
> Fandom: D.Gray-Man  
> Pairing: Lavi/Allen if you squint  
> Song the fic was written to: Ghost Towns by Radical Face  
> Warnings: None

Lavi had always loved the snow.

You would think, by his heart and hair of flame and fire, that he would not be one for the cold and bitter nature of snow-dusted landscapes. And sometimes, on lonely nights with only his lonely soul for company, he forgets the reason why. Eyes squint, eyebrows furrow, and under the cover of darkness and warmed sheets Lavi strains to remember why the sight of snow falling instils this wordless feeling within his heart.

He would ask his master, but he would no doubt receive an angered remark that he should be thinking of far more important matters; the war, the people he fights beside -- the people he wants to _protect_ \-- the turn of events that make the hidden history his people spend their lifetimes recording with ink-spattered fingers. There would be no solace or remembrance found in Bookman’s answers, so he would have to turn to his own memories for guidance.

But how could he rely on the memories of people he had been once, but was no more? His past personas were mere dreams, stories told by other people that he has remembered and kept for his own, filling a blank empty space where his own life should be. But still, he digs and probes and digs deeper still, wandering the halls of the library of his mind with no aim in mind, seeing where his wayward feet may take him.

Perhaps it was the snowstorm of 1876, when he was young and full of the hopes and dreams only children could bear. He was trapped in a small freezing cave by his master’s side, trying to warm tiny hands in front of a warming fire. It was there that Bookman had first shared some tales of his past, of wars fought by grand leaders and grander armies, of towns and cities that spiralled forth from tiny hillsides and were lit by tiny candle flames under faraway stars. He had listened with wonder, eye wide, heart swelling with a sense of something unspoken -- a feeling of pride, of wonder and amazement, of longing. He felt a desire to see more of the world, to see for himself this world of grandeur and history that his master spoke of with such fondness.

Of course, this desire soon dissipated into the sort of bitterness most felt when they were old and weary, having seen too much of the world. War upon war upon bloody war had thrown his childish dreams into ruination, for what beauty could be held in what humanity had made when they felt such joy at their own destruction?

No, this was not the memory he was searching for.

But then there were many memories of snow that he held, and he could count and recall them exactly -- in his lifetime of 17 years he had seen 17 winters, 54 snowstorms, 9 snowfalls on Christmas Day, and 32 instances of watching the snow begin to fall from darkened skies. Yet somehow none of these moments held any meaning for him, nor explained this feeling within him. And it was with frustration that he turned over in his cot, wrapping his blanket more tightly around his frame, sinking into a dreamless sleep that brought no answers to the questions he held.

And so the days passed, and still his question remained unanswered and lingering in his thoughts. He tried once, on a long train ride back to the Order, to ask his companions about it. Lenalee had laughed, hand hiding an amused smile, as she replied that it was a strange question but she had never seen the snow as anything but bothersome. Kanda, of course, said nothing and upon being pressed for an answer replied by unsheathing Mugen. A Finder in their company replied that he had loved the snow as a child, with endless snowball fights and snowman-making with his friends.

Lavi wondered, as the conversation fell into amiable silence, what it would have been like to have a snowball fight, or to make a snowman with the company of friends. He had never done it, though he had often watched other children play in the snow as he and Bookman walked by. Perhaps, when he was still young and finding difficulty in the objective nature of being a Bookman, he had longed to join them, or perhaps he felt jealousy that he could not be as other children were.

But whenever that feeling arose, that bitter tinge of jealousy that clutched at his heart painfully, he would always tell himself that he did not really want what they had, for he had something more than they would ever dream of becoming; he was a Bookman, an objective observer that recorded the hidden history. He would witness things that they would never even hear stories about, he would see a world they would never step foot into. And whatever remnant of jealousy that remained was replaced with a sense of pride, and so he continued to walk forward on the path he had chosen for himself -- no, not chosen, _forced upon_ \-- with his head held high.

As time passed Lavi began to decide he would not find his answer and that, perhaps, it was simply a feeling with no origin, an emotion somehow linked to the human nature he tried so very hard to deny; it was a by-product of his humanity and nothing more. So when he found himself sat on cold winter nights, head resting against a cold windowpane, gaze following the flakes of snow descending from the heavens outside, he would watch and immerse himself in this unknown feeling and not question it.

And, for a while, he did not question it. But then he met Allen Walker.

It had been in Germany at the start of another cold winter, grey skies foreshadowing an early snowfall, when his gaze fell upon a motionless sleeping body, bandaged and bruised, snow white hair falling softly across freshly washed sheets. And as his stomach twisted in slight remembrance, nostalgia washing through him, in that instant as he stood and watched the boy with fate resting heavy on weary shoulders he felt as if a part of home had rooted itself within his heart once more.

Home -- but _why_ home? He had no home, for he was a Bookman, an unspoken observer who recorded the hidden history -- but he had a name once, a family, a tiny house built of darkened wood on a snowy hillside, a fire roaring in the corner of a -- and he had been walking this path as long as he could remember and a Bookman is what he had always been -- yet he remembered nights filled with laughter and pasta steaming on plates with people who had kind eyes and kind smiles and -- if he had a home it was where he had trained to be a Bookman with his master at his side teaching him and guiding him and -- he had made a snowman outside with his sister but she had thrown a ball of snow at his head and burst into laughter that his fiery hair had become as white as snow and --

This rush of memories left his head aching and throbbing so he sat, legs shaking, resting his forehead against sweaty palms with laboured breaths. And as his gaze fell upon the sleeping boy before him once more he felt himself wondering, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, why he had begun to remember the past he had left behind so very, very long ago.

The past he had all but forgotten.

But something had started -- a small stone had set forth an avalanche and there was no way to stop it. The rigid mask and composure that had been months in the making, years in the mastering, was crumbling and he did not even know _why_. And he began to realise that the day he began to question things had already set in motion this mess he found himself in -- or maybe it was meeting _her_ for the first time, with tears running down bandaged cheeks and his heart twisting in _pity_ \-- and he found himself listing moments since he had joined the Order that showed he was already drifting off the path he had spent years walking on with no doubt in his heart -- but he had never chosen this path and he had always resented it but he had _no choice_ \-- and now he was left torn over two different futures and he wanted neither and both.

He could have neither, yet he could not have both.

And so, caged heart crumbling, he asked Allen in a darkened forest as snow fell what he thought of it, if it was important to him. He had frozen for a moment, eyes widening, before a sad yet fond smile graced his features as his silver eyes filled with a nostalgia that wormed its way into Lavi’s heart, and as he turned and said five single words Lavi knew why he had remembered, for they were both kindred spirits lost on their way to a future neither really wanted or chose.

“It reminds me of family.”


End file.
